Page 12

She’s hot, sure, but she’s still just trailer trash in a dress.

I worked three times harder than Camden Shepherd ever did, and still was found wanting.

When I answered, I kept my voice low and even, careful not to inject even an ounce of the shrillness with which I was capable. “I don’t think I’m better than anyone, so if you ever find proof, I’d love to see it.”

His head tilted. “Oh, it’s there. I’ll make sure to point it out the next time I see it.”

Heat flared up my neck. I kept my expression neutral as I withdrew my hands from the desk and replied to him with a simple narrowing of my eyes.

“What do you know about bourbon?” he asked.

The sudden subject change caught me off guard, and my autopilot mind took charge. I spewed forth all the facts I’d learned last night regarding bourbon manufacture, sales, marketing, and the Henley distillery specifically.

He dragged a hand down his face. “Should’ve known you’d memorize every detail of the entire industry.”

“I like to be prepared.”

“I know,” he said, saturated with condescension. “Alright, so what do you know about marketing to women?”

“Um, everything?”

At that moment, a quick knock on the door preceded Ivy poking her head in. “Just checking in. Everyone doing good? Need anything?”

I startled at the sudden intrusion. “We’re great!” Too chipper, Shay. I cleared my throat and modulated my voice. “I’m great. I don’t need anything.”

Cam merely sent her a flat stare. “Get out, Ivy.”

She grumbled, but the door clicked shut again.

“Is she okay?” I pointed my thumb behind me.

He raised an eyebrow. “She’s great.”

My jaw hardened, but Cam’s posture finally loosened. He flashed a smile that showed off his white teeth and laughed once. “You’re still so easy to rile up.”

Indignant, I started to deny it, but he raised a hand. “Apologies. So I’m sure you realized in your research that most bourbon is marketed to either the country boys or the wealthy. My dad wanted to capture the young professionals. Said he wanted an ad that felt like Tom Ford.”

I didn’t know who Tom Ford was, but the implication was obvious. Elbow braced on the desk, I rested my cheek in my hand. “Does Tom Ford routinely objectify women by comparing them to his products?”

He had the grace to shift his pretty features into something vaguely contrite. “The ad…wasn’t my idea, but I approved it.”

Going for light, I sucked a breath through my teeth. “Not your best moment, Shepherd.” Then the world stopped when one of my eyes closed briefly. Was that a wink? As if we were friends or something? Why did I do that?

He blinked several times as if he wasn’t quite sure what happened…which was fair because neither did I. Maybe a demon had temporarily possessed my eye, trying to sabotage my entire life.

Suspicion clouded his expression. “Did you just wink at me?”

I straightened again, cheeks scalded, and trained my gaze on the desk between us. “I—Did I—What? No.”

“I think you did. But I’m going to ignore it because it was weird.”

Words exploded from my mouth. “I had something in my eye.”

“I believe you,” he said in a disbelieving tone.

“That’s…great.” My eyes fell shut at once. Oh. My. God. At that moment, I would have struck the word “great” from my vocabulary if I could.

A deep laugh rumbled in his chest. “This is the worst interview I’ve ever conducted.”